Oxymoron
by troatie
Summary: She’s a contradiction, in and of herself. The one contradiction he’s comfortable with." Pre-med school, young Preston/Addison oneshot. AU or it-may-have-happened-you-never-know, depends on how you look at it.


Disclaimer: I don't own Addison or Burke. Shonda does.

_A/N:_ _I don't even have the words to explain what got into me to write this. I was studying the Montessori Method, and my brain kept going to naked young Burke/Addison, so I decided to get it out of my system and write it down so I could go back to the studying :P This is my first ever try at both Burke and this pairing, and I'm not completely sure that this makes any sense at all (please let me know if it doesn't). But I hope it does, and that you'll enjoy :)_

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**Oxymoron**

Graduation. The moment every college student looks forward to. The moment they're finally free. The moment they can take the next step towards their goal. For Preston Burke, it means he's finally on his way to med school. One step closer to being Dr. Preston Burke. It's a good day.

Then again, it's also the day that marks the end of an era. The end to four years full of memories and experiences. The end of four years full of people. For Preston Burke, it's the end of four years full of one person. Just one. One person complicated enough that he didn't have the time or the energy – or, let's face it, the need – for anyone else. It may not be such a good day, after all.

Or maybe it is. He never knows with her. He's never sure, when it comes to her. She's the one person who can confuse him. The one who can make him doubt. The one concept he can't define with perfect clarity. The one he loves to hate, and hates to love. She's a contradiction, in and of herself. The one contradiction he's comfortable with.

He's known her for four years, and he still can't define their relationship. They're friends and lab partners and lovers and rivals, all at once. They're _them_, as she likes to put it, with that honest simplicity that annoys and amuses him at the same time. He likes his definitions clear and accurate. She prefers simple and practical. And it shouldn't work, but it does. The one thing Preston Burke can't explain.

And yet somehow, that doesn't matter right now. It should. The reason behind it, having an explanation, being able to define it, it should matter to him. It does, and yet it doesn't. The simplicity of lying in bed together is enough to keep his mind at ease. He loves her for that. When the moment's over and he tries to find answers once again, he'll hate her for the exact same reason. It's never really simple when she's involved.

But right now, it is. The feel of her soft skin against his chest, the look of her long fingers laced through his, the fruity smell of her hair on his pillow, the sound of her calm breathing on his neck, and the taste of her lips that still lingers on his. It's simple. Perfectly so. And Preston Burke can appreciate perfection. He can appreciate the simple perfection of being lovers, for now. Until he speaks, and their relationship shifts – smoothly and easily, but still inexplicably – towards friendship, once again.

"I've finally heard from Johns Hopkins."

"And?"

"And I've been accepted."

"Congratulations, Preston. I knew you'd make it."

He feels her smile against his neck, and he loves her and hates her for it. He loves that she's happy for him, that she's proud of him, that she understands how much it means to him. He hates that she isn't sad for _them_. That she's being – once again – contradictory. That she's being his friend with her legs tangled with his and her clothes laying on the floor, and his lover with a smile on her face after he announced he's leaving.

He doesn't ask if she's staying at Columbia med. He knows she is. He doesn't ask if they'll keep in touch. He knows they won't. They're friends and they're rivals and they're lovers and lab partners, and theirs is not the kind of relationship that can be kept alive in the distance. It's too many things at once, or maybe it's nothing at all. And he speaks again, because – for now – they're still _them_.

"Do you think we'll meet again, years from now?"

"Maybe." It's never yes or no with her. Never a concrete answer. "Do you?"

"Yes." Clear and accurate. Yes, he does. "Years from now, we will."

She smiles again, and they fall into a comfortable silence, like they usually do after he answers a question. His answers are always sincere. Always absolute. He doesn't leave a thread to start a discussion when he answers a question. Her answers are always up for interpretation, and she's never the last one to speak. After four years, he doesn't know if he loves or hates that about her.

"I have a goodbye-and-good-luck-in-med-school present for you."

He doesn't ask what it is – he knows she won't tell him, and he's not one for superfluous questions – and lets go of her so she can roll away and reach for the first drawer on her bedside table. It's a small and carefully wrapped box, and he mimics her excited smile when he starts ripping the paper to discover what's inside. He never knows with her. She's the one person who can make him love the unexpected.

"It's a scrub cap." He states the obvious while he fingers the yellow fabric, and his smile gets a little wider when he imagines himself wearing it inside his OR.

"It's a _lucky_ scrub cap." She doesn't ask him to try it on, and he loves her for it. They both know he's not going to wear it until he steps into an OR for the first time.

"And what makes this scrub cap a lucky one?"

"It's a present from me. It has good juju." He chuckles and moves his arm so she can go back to her spot on his left side, and carefully wraps it around her shoulders when she's settled against him. Possessively, like a lover, and protectively like a friend. It's never just one thing. Never clear.

"Yellow is my favorite color."

"I know." She nods against his shoulder. "And it has little musical notes, too. For extra powerful good juju."

And they laugh, because she knows he doesn't really believe in juju, and he knows she doesn't really care.

"I didn't get you anything."

"You gave me the lucky pin."

He nods and smiles. The plain, golden safety pin that's been referred to as "the lucky pin" for the past two years. Since that day the zipper on her skirt broke before an exam and he gave him the pin he had in his pencil case. She laughed at him for carrying around safety pins like an elderly lady – in her own words – and then aced the exam and proceeded to declare the pin a lucky one. Preston had found it both amusing and exasperating that she didn't admit to studying having been the reason behind her perfect score, and she pinned it to the front of her shirt before every exam from then on.

"The lucky pin won't help in the OR, though."

And she giggles lightly, because she knows he's just humoring her and her juju talk. "I'll pin it to my scrubs. It'll help."

"Yes. Yes, it will."

Another absolute answer, and another silence. He wonders if he'll ever find someone else who can make every silence a comfortable one. He wonders if she'll miss him too.

"Preston?"

"Yes."

"Just think about it. When we meet again, years from now, we'll probably be doctors already."

"We'll be doctors." There's no probably in his mind. He's sure. "I'll be Dr. Preston Burke." She smiles against his neck. "And that'll mean something. I'll be Dr. Preston Burke, and people will know who I am."

"And you'll wear your lucky scrub cap with good juju."

He nods slowly. "And I'll wear my lucky scrub cap with good juju. People will know Preston Burke's lucky scrub cap."

And she laughs, even though she knows he's serious. He always is. "I'll wear the lucky pin. When I'm Dr. Addison Forbes Montgomery Something and we meet again."

"Something?"

"I'll probably be married by then. We'll have the whole package, both of us."

It hurts more than it should. It hurts too sharply for a lover, too deeply for a friend, and too much for a rival and lab partner. It hurts – and that's the objective observation, the one he trusts – and it probably shouldn't. It's never sure when it comes to her. Never absolute.

"What's your whole package?" He knows, but he wants her to talk. Maybe her package's changed. And he loves her and hates her for making him hope.

"A family. A husband that loves me, some kids – two or three, maybe, nothing insane – and a nice house with a backyard. And a job that I love. Neonatal surgeon, probably. We'll see." It hasn't changed. "What's yours?"

"Recognition. Being a world-renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. Making medical history. And someone to share it with."

She nods and smiles again. "I think we'll both have the whole package when we meet again."

"Yes. Yes, we will."

He wants it to be her. He wants her to be the one he shares it with. But she won't be, because that's not _them_. Because he'd never put her before his job, and she'd never put her job before him. Because their packages wouldn't be whole. It's the reason behind being lab partners and lovers and friends and rivals. They can't take the next step. They don't want to. They know it, and they've known ever since this relationship that defies all logic started. He's not sure if he hates or loves that fact.

"Addison?" And she answers with a little sound. "I will miss you."

She props herself up on her elbow and smiles at him. He hates that she's not crying, and loves that she's making this easy. "I'll miss you, too."

"It'll be hard to find a better lab partner." He decides focusing on that part of their relationship is the safest approach. The painless one.

"It won't be hard." And she smirks at him. "It'll be impossible."

He chuckles, because she's got one quarter of the problem solved. Their last Chemistry class was last week. Goodbye to Addison, his lab partner. He knows it was the easy part.

"I leave for Alabama first thing tomorrow morning, so I'll wake up early to go by my room and pack the last few things." She nods slightly. She knows. "Do you want me to wake you up?"

"I think I'm just gonna sleep all morning. My parents aren't coming till after lunch." He knows she doesn't want a tearful goodbye with him driving away. He wishes she did, but he's glad she doesn't.

"Are you sure? I can drive you to Savvy's place before I leave."

And she shakes her head. "It's all right."

It's not, actually. But he doesn't have the time to think about having said goodbye to Addison, his friend – and the fact that yesterday's car ride has officially become the Last One – before she kisses him. And he kisses her back, loving her and hating her at once. Wanting her to stop and leave and put him out of his misery, and willing her to continue and stay and tell him they have a chance.

It's the last time. They both know it. And he wants it to be nothing worth remembering and yet something he'll never forget. It's never simple, and yet it is. He wants her, and that's clear enough for him. Clear enough to help him decide to let every single detail about her become a memory he'll never forget. The way she tastes, the way she feels, the way she smells, the way she looks, the way she sounds.

"Preston?"

He smiles at the quiet moan that follows his name. "Yes, Addison."

"When you're Preston Burke the world renowned surgeon?" Her nails dig slightly on his back, and her legs tighten around his waist.

"Yes." And he's still on the fence on his feelings about her ability to talk and have sex at the same time.

"I'll still be the girl who graduated top of your class."

Her playful and almost daring smirk is enough to make a chuckle escape his lips. Her last cocky remark. Goodbye to Addison, his rival. And he realizes, this is simple now. She's just Addison, his lover. Just them, for once, for the first and last time.

"I love you."

Addison smiles and gasps slightly when he changes the angle. "I know."

But it's not enough. It's never been. He's still leaving, she's still staying, and this is still ending. Until they meet again. When he's Preston Burke – and it means something – and she's added a fourth name to her list. When he's found someone to share his life with, and she's found someone to have a family with. And she won't compare to Addison, and Addison's husband won't deserve her – because nobody's good enough, in his opinion – but they'll have the whole package, both of them. And he'll wear the lucky yellow scrub cap with musical notes and good juju, and she'll pin the lucky golden safety pin to her scrubs.

His name leaves her lips when she comes, and he knows it was the last time. Goodbye to Addison, his lover. Maybe love will be enough when they meet again. Maybe she'll still have just three names, and he'll be ready to make her a priority. Maybe they'll be just _them_, then, and that will be enough. There's always a maybe with her. Always hope. And he loves her and hates her for that.


End file.
